


play it by the book

by Elsajeni



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (but like very sweetly), Bibliophilia, Hand Jobs, M/M, Objectification, Praise Kink, book valuation roleplay, listen it's sort of hard to describe just trust me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 08:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24966559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/pseuds/Elsajeni
Summary: There's something about the care Aziraphale takes with his books. The way he treasures them,lovesthem...... and also, perhaps more relevant to Crowley's reaction, the way hefondlesthem. Strokes their covers. Spreads their pages open with a sure hand, runs his fingers down the split at the center. Traces the letters debossed into leather covers, or teases at the stitching with a fingertip, the light of rapture in his face...Crowley has spent a lot of time imagining what it might be like to be one of Aziraphale's books. Aziraphale is happy to give him the chance to find out.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 97
Kudos: 504
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Just Enough Of A Bastard to be Worth Knowing Biblically, Our Own Side





	play it by the book

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [this kinkmeme prompt](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=2886233#cmt2886233). You had me at "read me like one of your French books," OP.
> 
> Thanks to [forthegreatergood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthegreatergood/pseuds/forthegreatergood) and [hubblegleeflower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower) for betaing!

Aziraphale is at his desk, doing something arcane to a book. He's talking while he does it, seemingly half to himself and half to the book. Crowley knows from experience that he's probably narrating what he's doing, but it's too quiet for him to catch— at least from where he sits, in the back room, leaning intently over one arm of the settee and watching.

Watching very closely. And _enjoying_.

There's something about the care Aziraphale takes with his books, the special little costume of reading glasses and gloves he puts on for it, the way he handles them— every movement steady and gentle, every atom of his being focused on his task. The way he treasures them, _loves_ them...

... and also, perhaps more relevant to Crowley's reaction, the way he _fondles_ them. Strokes their covers. Spreads their pages open with a sure hand, runs his fingers down the split at the center. Traces the letters debossed into leather covers, or teases at the stitching with a fingertip, the light of rapture in his face—

At his desk, Aziraphale presses one finger into the tail of the book's spine, testing the tension of the endband. On the settee, Crowley twitches as if that finger had pressed into him, and his breath catches and comes out in a whimper.

He realizes what he's doing as he's doing it and tries to swallow the sound. Aziraphale still seems fully focused on the book in his hands, and for a moment Crowley thinks he got lucky— that Aziraphale didn't hear anything. That he managed to stifle the noise just enough, or that the angel was too deeply absorbed in his work to notice it. He relaxes a bit and goes back to watching, enjoying, just a little more careful this time not to get carried away.

Then Aziraphale sets the book down (he gives it one last stroke down its spine and smiles at it fondly, and Crowley bites down hard on his lip to keep from moaning), turns in his seat and says, "Is everything all right, my dear?"

"Whuh," Crowley manages, flailing his way upright in his seat. "Me? What? Fine! Obviously!"

"I do pay attention, you know." Aziraphale gets up and crosses the few feet to the settee. Crowley is sitting up as straight as he ever does, but Aziraphale still looms over him, regarding him over the rims of his reading glasses. It's his _I am an angel of the Lord and I know the depths of your soul_ look— although in this particular instance, Crowley has to admit, angelic powers probably aren't necessary to recognize that something's up. "You like to watch me work. Is that it?"

"Well—" But that's all right, that's something safe to admit to, isn't it? He likes to watch Aziraphale do _lots_ of things. He shrugs, hoping it looks casual. "Yeah. Of course."

"You like it a great deal."

That comes with a glance down Crowley's body— there's not an obvious tent in his trousers, at least not anymore, but a flush rises in his face anyway. He briefly considers playing dumb, seeing if he can get Aziraphale to actually say _you get off on it_.

Instead he swallows, throat dry, and nods.

Aziraphale kneels down, which puts them more or less eye to eye. "Can you tell me why? Is it something about the work itself, or— I know you like to see me enjoy things." His cheeks pink slightly. "Cakes."

"It's not _unrelated_ to the cakes thing," Crowley hedges.

"It's watching me enjoy myself, then?"

"It's... aagh." Crowley grimaces. "'s the attention. The way you touch them, and look at them. Like— like all of you, I mean _all_ , the extra eyes and noncorporeal bits and all, is completely focused on that book. Like it's the only thing in the world."

"Hmm. But I have been told I approach a chocolate gateau in much the same way, and you say this isn't quite the same." Aziraphale cocks his head and reaches one hand out, cups the side of Crowley's face. He still has his blessed white gloves on. It's the kind of touch Crowley can't help melting into anyway; with the glove in the mix, he turns and nuzzles into it without even thinking, entirely powerless to resist when Aziraphale probes gently, "What's different about this?"

"Can't really imagine being a cake." The words tumble out of Crowley's mouth without the intervention of his brain. "Playing at being eaten— I mean, some people are into it, I s'pose. Bit weird, if you ask me. But I could— if I were one of your books, being... restored, or whatever..."

Aziraphale frowns, and Crowley cringes and bites back the rest of the sentence. _Repaired, restored_ , it's all a little too close to _redeemed_ , and Satan knows that's dangerous territory. Just as well he stopped before he could say anything too direct— too _stupid_ — about Aziraphale mending him, making him something better than he is; as it is, he's probably in for a terribly gentle lecture.

What Aziraphale actually says, unexpectedly, is, "My dear, have you ever actually paid attention while I was restoring a book? There are _chisels_ involved."

Crowley makes a series of inarticulate noises, recalibrates, and complains, "You're being very _literal_ about this."

"And sometimes," Aziraphale carries on as if he hadn't spoken, "if it's a particularly bad case, thwacking it back into shape with a _hammer_."

"All right," Crowley says, the corners of his mouth curling up despite himself. "Well, we've found a good place to start negotiating ground rules, I think. Rule one: absolutely no thwacking me with a hammer."

  


* * *

  


"My newest acquisition," Aziraphale says— his tone is indulgent, and it makes a part of Crowley want to squirm in embarrassment. But Aziraphale runs one hand down his spine as he says it, proprietary but very gentle, and gives him a long, slow look up and down, and the banked heat in his gaze makes the _rest_ of Crowley sit up and take notice.

Aziraphale takes a half-step closer and goes on, "First things first; I had better inspect you properly."

That comes with another long stroke down Crowley's spine, and then Aziraphale takes him by the shoulders— gently, still so gently, but at the same time firmly enough that Crowley couldn't resist if he wanted to— and sits him up straight on the edge of the settee.

Aziraphale lets go and stands back, looking down at him critically. Crowley stays where he's been put, hardly daring to breathe. This is a game, or it _was_ a game until five seconds ago. Now he finds himself desperate for Aziraphale to smile at him, to nod approvingly and pronounce him a valuable find.

_Is this how the books feel?_ he thinks dizzily, nonsensically, waiting—

"Your dust jacket is in rather poor condition," Aziraphale says, running one hand down Crowley's thigh and frowning at the artfully faded denim.

"Those are like new," Crowley objects, the spell broken. "Don't you have any sense of— what am I saying, of course you don't— it's _fashion_ , angel."

Aziraphale arches an eyebrow. "Books are generally _silent_ , you know."

Crowley readies a protest, a silly one— _what, you haven't heard of audiobooks?_ — but before he can say anything Aziraphale is stepping closer, crowding right up into his space. He runs both his hands up Crowley's arms, around his shoulders, straightening the lapels of his jacket and smoothing the front of his shirt. _Inspecting_ him.

Crowley shuts his mouth sharply. _Books are silent. All right. I can do silent._

"Perhaps I was a little hasty," Aziraphale allows— he's got one hand on Crowley's jacket collar now, turning it up as if he's surprised to see the red lining. "The rest of this does seem to be in fine shape. Nothing worse than a bit of shelf wear, really. Now, as for what's _under_ the jacket..."

He steps away toward his desk, and returns a moment later with a pair of thin cotton gloves on, and begins very, _very_ carefully working Crowley's jacket off his shoulders.

Crowley regularly complains that Aziraphale takes so long in dressing and undressing, that he's too fussy with clothes— and in particular that he's _much_ too fussy with Crowley's clothes, which after all are just manifested, and can be re-manifested without any worry about mending or pressing out wrinkles or whatever it is Aziraphale is so concerned about. He considers making the same complaint now, or maybe just wriggling away and shucking off his 'dust jacket' himself.

"What a lovely thing you are," Aziraphale murmurs, letting one hand drift away from his work and up Crowley's jaw, back through his hair— and any thought of protesting flies right out of Crowley's head, replaced with the warm buzz of Aziraphale's approval. He goes still and pliant, letting Aziraphale move him, the angel manipulating his arms free of his sleeves until he has the jacket off and can lay it carefully aside. As he turns his attention to Crowley's glasses, lifting them delicately off his face and folding back the earpieces, he says it again— "Just lovely."

The belt comes after the glasses, and then the shoes, the socks, the soft-worn shirt— all of them removed with utmost care, a bit at a time, and laid out flat on the bookshop floor with something like reverence. (All but the glasses; those Aziraphale tucks into his own coat pocket, and the care he takes with them sends another dizzy surge of want through Crowley.) And then those sure, gentle, white-gloved hands are skimming down Crowley's bare chest, over the quivering skin of his stomach and down to the waistband of his trousers.

The button puts up some resistance. Aziraphale works at it with single-minded focus, not allowing it to fray so much as a single thread, and eventually slips it free of the buttonhole. Then it's on to the zip, and he is almost _unbearably_ slow and cautious with that, sliding it down what seems to be one tooth at a time. It's the lightest ghost of a touch, and Crowley, already hard though he's barely been touched, makes a thin, tight noise in the back of his throat and tries to grind up into it.

"Careful, dear," Aziraphale says, maddeningly calm and quiet. "You said yourself these are like new. I wouldn't want you to make a mess of them."

"'m not _that_ desperate," Crowley mutters, rocking his hips again and hissing when Aziraphale pulls his hand away. "Hurry up."

Aziraphale tugs the zip down the last quarter-inch and gives him a mock-stern look, even as he's getting a grip on Crowley's hips, urging him to his feet.

"This is delicate work, and it can't be rushed. Now, off with these—" The jeans cling and catch, difficult to wriggle out of under the best of circumstances, and Aziraphale clucks between his teeth. "Oh, dear, quite a tight binding. That's all right, you just need a little careful handling..."

And then Crowley is standing naked and a bit self-conscious in the middle of the back room. He shifts on his feet, watching Aziraphale lay out his trousers and pants alongside the rest of his clothes. Aziraphale takes his time arranging everything, fussing over each garment, squaring them up in a neat array, and Crowley wonders how far he's going to take this— if he really is going to pull out notebook and pen and catalogue Crowley's things.

At last, Aziraphale looks up from his work and smiles at Crowley. "Shall I take you over to the desk and have a look at you?"

Crowley isn't sure, for a moment, whether he's actually supposed to answer. But Aziraphale waits, looking at him expectantly. He nods and starts to turn toward the desk, figuring that Aziraphale will walk him over to it— and lets out an undignified, startled noise when, instead, Aziraphale steps closer and hefts him into his arms.

"Don't squirm," Aziraphale instructs, right in his ear. Crowley swallows and tries to obey— it's only a few steps across the room to the desk, but the warmth and surety of Aziraphale's hold on him pings something deep in his hindbrain, and it takes an effort not to go fully serpentine and drape himself around the angel's neck. As it is, by the time Aziraphale sets him down, perched on the edge of the desk, his feet have come out in snakeskin and he suspects he's lost control of the eyes _and_ the tongue.

It's a little embarrassing. It would be more embarrassing, except for the way Aziraphale's face lights up and the delighted little gasp he lets out.

"Oh, my dear," he says, seemingly enraptured— and to be fair, Crowley _has_ heard him talk to his books in this tone— as he rests one gloved hand on the side of Crowley's face, thumb tracing along his cheekbone. "What a stunning front cover."

"'ssss a little worn," Crowley points out, wrangling his tongue back under control. It's not that he objects to looking middle-aged by human standards, but there's no denying he's a bit more lined and craggy than the standard beauty ideal. "Not exactly in like-new condition."

"Oh, I wouldn't want it to be." Aziraphale's other hand comes up to cup his face, too, and then both hands are roaming, caressing him, fingertips tracing the line of his jaw and the curve of his mouth. "A bit of wear can make something more beautiful, you know. It shows you've lived in the world, that you haven't just been hidden away on a high shelf. Although—" He suddenly grasps Crowley's chin and tilts it upward with a sure, firm grip, moving him as if he really is just an object to be studied. The pad of his thumb rests in the center of Crowley's bottom lip, and it's all Crowley can do not to whimper. "—I _am_ pleased to see your gold leaf is in its original condition."

Crowley blinks slowly at him; for one hazy moment he can't work out what Aziraphale is talking about. Gold— _oh_. The eyes, that must be. Aziraphale is always saying flattering nonsense about his eyes. And 'original condition,' he supposes, means that, as he suspected, they've gone yellow right out to the corners— the way Aziraphale would have seen them in Eden, before Crowley worked out that he could make them look more human.

All right. If Aziraphale likes them in _original condition_ , he won't try to de-snake them.

In fact, if Aziraphale likes them so well... Crowley blinks again, on purpose this time, locks his gaze on Aziraphale's eyes and keeps it there while he draws the tip of the angel's thumb, still resting on his lower lip, into his mouth.

Aziraphale's mouth drops half-open and his eyes drop half-closed. Moving as if he can't stop himself, he presses further in, his knuckle scraping on Crowley's front teeth. For a moment Crowley thinks that he'll yield entirely, that the game is over. He feels the same rush of smug pride as he always does when Aziraphale yields to temptation, but this time it's mixed with an odd note of regret. He _likes_ this game, likes it in a way he didn't quite expect— it may have been half a joke to start with, but now he finds he'd be sorry to see it end so soon.

He needn't have worried. He lets Aziraphale push into his mouth, lets his tongue go forked again and plays it over the blunt tip of Aziraphale's thumb, and Aziraphale makes a low, throaty noise—

—and then steps sharply backward, breathing heavily, and stands holding his damp thumb out as if he doesn't quite know what to do with it.

"Wipe that on me," Crowley says, tense and urgent and hungry.

Aziraphale hesitates for another moment, looking as if he's considering it, before wiping his thumb dry on his own waistcoat instead.

"Damp stains," he says— he's clearly aiming for a lecturing sort of tone, but it comes out a little unsteady— "would do terrible things to your resale value."

"Sod my _resssale value—_ "

" _Quiet_ ," Aziraphale says, very sharply.

Crowley shuts his mouth with a snap.

There's a long silence in the bookshop. Crowley doesn't speak, doesn't move, barely breathes— _books are silent_ , he remembers— but he keeps his eyes fixed on Aziraphale, watching as he collects himself. First a moment with his eyes shut, a few deep breaths, then the familiar little routine with his clothes. Lapels smoothed down, waistcoat tugged into place, tie straightened.

At last Aziraphale opens his eyes.

"You know," he says, somehow perfectly steady and composed again, "this is delicate work, and it requires focus. And it occurs to me that the shop is still open, and the blinds up and all. I would so hate to be interrupted by a customer just as I'm getting to the best part of you."

The best part of Crowley, which by now is achingly hard, twitches at the thought of some unsuspecting human walking in on this, and Crowley bites back a moan.

"So I'm going to close up— and I'm going to do it properly— and you're going to sit right here while I do, and when I come back to the desk I won't find a page out of place, will I? You'll be exactly as I left you."

Crowley hesitates. But Aziraphale expected him to answer before, when he was asked a question, even if he is supposed to be still and silent. He nods jerkily.

"Good." Aziraphale smiles at him. He steps closer, and Crowley sways toward him without meaning to— but he's only taking off his white gloves and laying them down on the desktop, close enough that they _just_ brush Crowley's hip. And then he's gone, and all Crowley can do is hold still and watch, the barely-there sensation of the gloves sending a fizzing warmth all down his spine.

He must have watched Aziraphale lock up the shop a thousand times. Most nights it's done in a click of his fingers and a clatter of latches and window-shades. Even when he feels he can't spare the miracle, it's a matter of a few seconds— turn the lock, flip the sign around to 'closed,' break out a bottle.

Tonight, Aziraphale is thorough. _Meticulous_. He locks the door and triple-checks the bolt. He turns the sign to 'closed' and fusses over how it sits, not satisfied until it's perfectly straight on its little hook. He makes a thorough circuit of the shop— that takes him out of Crowley's view for a while, but Crowley can hear his footsteps the whole time, steady and deliberate— presumably checking for stray customers or lost umbrellas or books that have been left out of place. And then he goes around a second time to pull down each of the window-shades, one by one, and then a third to turn out most of the lights in the front room. It takes ages, and it's clear he knows exactly what he's doing— never leaving Crowley's line of sight for too long, circling back toward him and breaking off on some new errand _just_ before reaching him, every move calculated to keep him on edge.

At last Aziraphale comes to a stop in the center of the shop floor, and Crowley watches hungrily as he plays out a little routine of settling in for the evening. Coat off, hung neatly on a stand by the door. Tie loosened, just a little— he wouldn't be Aziraphale, Crowley supposes, if he took it off entirely. Waistcoat unbuttoned, and then off, folded and laid aside— and fuck, Crowley is desperate. He doesn't dare move, but he's straining toward Aziraphale like a plant toward the sun, half aware how ridiculous it is to be this undone by the sight of Aziraphale in shirtsleeves and braces and half convinced he will _literally discorporate_ if Aziraphale doesn't come back and touch him _this instant—_

And the angel, bastard that he is, turns the other way, opens the till, and begins making a production of counting out the drawer.

Crowley shivers and presses his hands harder into the desktop. He fights the impulse to move, to beg, to touch himself— the contents of that till can't have changed in decades. He's being fucking _taunted_ , and he's not going to give in to it. _Just as I left you_ , Aziraphale said, _not a page out of place_ , and that's what he will bloody well get. Crowley closes his eyes for a moment, the space of two ragged breaths—

—and when he opens them, Aziraphale is before him again, already pulling his gloves back on.

"There," he says, eyes twinkling behind his ridiculous reading glasses. "How lovely to be able to give you my _full_ attention. Now, let's see, I'd about finished with your front cover..."

His hands drift back to Crowley's face, tipping it upward, fingertips running lightly along his hairline and down to the hinge of his jaw. But only for a moment— then they're tracing down the column of his throat, out along his collarbones to his shoulders, down his sides to rest loosely on his hips.

They linger there for a moment, and Crowley gives up holding back— he's a _demon_ , what business does he have _fighting_ temptation anyway— and lets himself roll his hips up into Aziraphale's grip, just a little. Just enough to feel that grip tighten for a moment, to be reminded how easily Aziraphale could pin him in place.

The touch, the casual strength of it, makes his prick jump, liquid beading at its tip. He hisses between his teeth, desperate for Aziraphale to finish this game, to take him in hand— though he doesn't really expect it, not yet. Not with the teasing sort of mood the angel is clearly in.

But Aziraphale's hands do come closer, sweeping in along the crease of his thigh, nearly, _nearly_ — and then away, down his thighs. Crowley can't keep back the thin, desperate whine that rises in the back of his throat.

"I know, dear," Aziraphale murmurs, and that in itself is unexpected. He'd been sure he was in for more teasing, more gentle punishment. Instead Aziraphale strokes both hands down his thighs again, this time with a firmer grip, and repeats, "I know. You're a delicate thing, aren't you? And I've been rather hard on you. If I'm not careful, you'll start shaking pages loose, and then where will we be?"

"I won't," Crowley insists— because he wants Aziraphale's hand on him, he _wants_ it, but even more he wants Aziraphale to be pleased with him, to tell him how well he's done, to compliment him on his sodding _resale value_.

Aziraphale looks at him warmly, fondly. "No? All right. But I _will_ be careful with you. You're a very special piece to the right collector, and I've hardly had the chance to enjoy you. Now, just let me have a look at your other cover, darling."

Crowley's thoughts are a muddle of _warm_ and _please_ and _hold still hold still hold still_ ; working out what Aziraphale means by _your other cover_ is beyond him. His front cover, he manages to piece together, was his face. So his back cover...

Aziraphale sinks to his knees in front of the desk, his face level with Crowley's shins, and closes one hand, warm even through the fabric of its glove, around the arch of his foot.

"Such a beautiful specimen," Aziraphale says softly, while Crowley, stunned, tries to bring his brain back online. Aziraphale is stroking the scales on the top of his foot, tracing their outlines with a fingertip. _Petting_ them, almost, and looking at them with something like rapture in his face, as if they really are something beautiful. "You are one of a kind, aren't you? And so richly made, with your gold leaf and embossed leather. You were some bookbinder's masterpiece."

"Please," Crowley whispers. He grips the edge of the desk, inches from cracking and bringing a hand up to touch himself, or reaching out to bury a hand in Aziraphale's hair— he's not sure which would feel better. He feels _drunk_.

"The finest thing I've ever seen," Aziraphale says, relentless. His hands are inching up Crowley's ankles, almost one scale at a time, stroking and petting and seemingly cataloging. He leans in, eyes falling closed, and rests the side of his face against Crowley's leg.

Crowley feels desperately over-sensitive, every nerve sparking. Even Aziraphale's breath on his skin sends a shiver of urgent desire through him. The angel turns his head to nuzzle into Crowley, to brush the gentlest of kisses onto the prominent bone of his ankle, murmuring against the skin, "Perhaps the finest work your maker ever did..."

"Fuck," Crowley hisses, suddenly overwhelmed, twisting out of Aziraphale's grip. "Oh, fuck, angel—"

He screws his eyes shut, chest heaving, hands white-knuckled on the edge of the desk as his hips buck involuntarily against the empty air.

After a long moment, when he feels he's got a grip on himself— _argh, no, don't think about getting a grip on yourself_ — when he feels he's _back under control_ , he opens his eyes again and says shakily, "And after what you said about damp stains."

"Oh, come now, certainly you've seen me do _that_ with a book before."

"Is that what you and your books get up to when I'm not here? I knew you fondled them, I didn't know you were slipping them a bit of tongue."

" _Crowley_ ," Aziraphale says, disapprovingly, though the effect is spoiled a little by the laugh that he doesn't quite manage to hide. "It's perfectly innocent— you know, people are always going on about the smell of old books—"

"Yeah, well." Crowley shifts uneasily, remembering that he's meant to be holding still and keeping quiet. That the books don't normally get to set the terms of their inspection, and that complaining _I feel weird about you complimenting all my snakey bits_ would be missing the point of the game, anyway. "Not this old book."

"I'm sorry, my dear," Aziraphale says gently. "Was it too much? Do you want to stop?"

"No." Crowley is shaking his head before the question is even fully out of Aziraphale's mouth. "I mean— yes, too much." _Too good._ "But don't stop."

Aziraphale rests a hand on his ankle again— not petting or teasing this time, just holding him, warm and steadying. "Darling. Are you sure? If you're not enjoying yourself..."

"I am," Crowley says, a little more fervently than he means to. "I really, _really_ am. Just, go easy on the—" He pauses, trying to put himself back into the right mindset. Not _scales_ , not in the game they're meant to be playing. "The back cover. Please."

"Of course," Aziraphale agrees at once. "I've seen all I need to see of that, anyway. You have simply beautiful covers, and they're in very fine condition, but really—" He leans in close, his hands trailing lightly up Crowley's ribcage, and his voice drops to a murmur. "—it's what's between them that I'm most interested in."

Crowley takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, yielding to Aziraphale's touch. He does _want_ to go on with the game, but the interruption has broken whatever spell he was under, and he's not sure he'll be able to recapture the sensation.

But Aziraphale is so close, intoxicatingly close, and he's stepped so easily back into his role— his gloved fingers trail all over Crowley's body, the lightest ghost of a touch, skimming up his ribs and around his biceps and all down the length of his spine. He's leaned in, too, his face bare inches away as he studies every square centimeter of Crowley's skin. Under the concentrated beam of his attention— _all_ of his attention, Crowley knows, all those wheels and feathers and intangible eyes equally focused on him— Crowley sinks easily, gratefully, back into the warm haze of his part in the game.

"Lightly foxed," Aziraphale pronounces at last, his lips so close that the warmth of his breath makes Crowley shiver.

Crowley has heard Aziraphale mutter about foxing in his books on and off for the last hundred years, and it suddenly occurs to him that he's never bothered to find out what it _means_. In fact, he's formed the vague impression that it's related to dog-earing, on the basis— rather tenuous, now that he thinks about it— that foxes are sort of like dogs. But Aziraphale is looking at his hands and wrists, at the scattering of freckles there.

"Here—" One fingertip, tracing out a constellation of freckles from the back of Crowley's hand around to the inside of his forearm. "—and here—" The fingertip drifts further up his arm, lingers on his shoulder before trailing slowly along his collarbone. "—here, too."

There are plenty of freckles for Aziraphale to linger over, and for a while he does, tracing out invisible connecting lines, sketching shapes or runes or sigils over Crowley's shoulder blades that Crowley can't quite make out. Soon enough, though, the tracing gives way to just touching— petting, stroking, caressing— and before long Aziraphale has given up all pretense of inspecting or studying, unless perhaps it's the study of what makes Crowley tremble and gasp.

One roaming hand slides down the plane of his chest, down his belly, circles around the base of his cock— the tease of it alone is enough to make his hips jerk. And then the hand closes around him, gives him a long, languorous stroke slowly up and down, and Crowley can't help himself; he arches up into it, moans low in his throat, his whole body begging for _more, harder_.

"Shh," Aziraphale says, a teasing glint in his eye, and the hand drifts away down Crowley's thigh, back to petting.

It happens again a minute later— one stroke, slow and teasing. This time Crowley grits his teeth and manages not to make a sound, but his hips still roll up into the touch, pressing for more.

Again, a minute or two after that, Aziraphale's grip a little firmer this time. And again, and again, and all the while he's still petting Crowley all over, murmuring praise under his breath: _lovely thing, beautiful thing, every page just as it should be_.

He's manhandling Crowley a bit, too, repositioning him on the desk— guiding his legs apart and his hips forward, gently but firmly leaning him back to rest on his elbows. It occurs to Crowley where this might be going, and without really meaning to he asks, low and hungry, "Are you going to fuck me?"

"Crass," Aziraphale says, but affectionately. "No, I don't think that would really be in the spirit of the thing, would it? Books don't have orifices."

"Could if you wanted them to," Crowley mutters.

"Crowley."

"I'm just saying, considering everything, I'm a little surprised I _haven't_ ever caught you with your prick in a book."

" _Crowley_." This time there's some genuine sternness in Aziraphale's voice. "Be quiet for me, darling. You'll be glad you did."

He's taking off the glove on his left hand as he says it. Crowley watches. He's not going to say anything, he's not going to ask any questions, he's _not_ —

"You know," Aziraphale says, anticipating him, "it's ritual more than anything, wearing these gloves when I'm working. I like them, and I find it helps to keep me focused. But for some things—" He flexes his bared hand, lowers it to rest on Crowley's inner thigh, slides it upward. "—for really _delicate_ work, they're actually a hindrance. Best to use bare hands, so you can feel what you're doing."

One finger strokes the skin beneath Crowley's balls, and then further back. Not seeking entrance— just teasing, barely grazing the sensitive flesh there. Crowley shudders, almost bucking up off the desk, and just barely manages to stop himself from crying out.

"Oh, very good," Aziraphale says— Crowley has to bite back another whine at the praise. And then Aziraphale's other hand, still gloved, wraps around his cock and begins to stroke it in earnest, and it's all he can do to remember to _breathe_ , never mind keeping quiet.

"You precious thing," Aziraphale murmurs, almost too low to hear. "You _priceless_ thing. You haven't been treated as you deserve, have you?"

Through the haze of pleasure, Crowley is suddenly terribly glad that he isn't actually supposed to answer. All the same, he makes a choked-off noise of protest.

"I said it before, I know, but really—" Aziraphale's finger is still working teasing circles around his hole, and the hand around his cock is moving faster, the fine-woven fabric of the glove sliding and dragging deliciously. "—you _are_ a masterpiece. You are the most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes on. The most precious thing in the world."

The teasing fingertip is massaging now, a little firmer, just at the border between pleasure and pain. Crowley can't help himself; he gives up any pretense of inanimacy and rocks back against it, ruts up into the firm hand around his cock, back and forth between the two points of contact. He's breathing in helpless, eager little pants, his every nerve singing. Aziraphale has held him on edge for what felt like _hours_ ; now he's rushing toward the cliff-edge of orgasm, dragged inexorably closer by Aziraphale's hand on his prick, Aziraphale's voice in his ear—

"Let me keep you," the angel whispers, low and sweet and urgent. "I'd give up all the rest of my collection, if that were the asking price, and keep you instead. You ought to be protected, you ought to be _treasured_ — you beautiful thing, I'd give anything for you, I'd do anything—" And all the time his hands keep working, harder and faster, Crowley pinned helplessly between them, until he shudders and bucks and tumbles over the edge, spilling hot over his own belly, almost sobbing with the pleasure and the relief of it.

Aziraphale strokes him through it, murmuring praise into his ear, wringing pleasure and tension from him until at last Crowley shivers and collapses backward across the desk, boneless and exhausted. He feels Aziraphale's hands slip away, tries to muster a noise of complaint— over-sensitive though he is, he wants the touch, misses it. But it's only gone for a moment, and then there are strong hands back on his hips, his waist. Aziraphale gathers him up into his arms and settles into his desk chair, and Crowley comes with him readily, slithering off the edge of the desk and landing warm and safe in Aziraphale's lap.

He stays there for a long while, head resting against Aziraphale's shoulder, Aziraphale holding him close and gently stroking his back. Eventually he raises his head enough to make eye contact, and Aziraphale beams at him and says, "There you are, my dear. Was that as good as you'd imagined?"

"Better," Crowley says, aware that he's smiling dopily, but too sated and loose-limbed to be anything but perfectly honest. "Unbelievable. But—" He gestures at the mess on his belly. "—I think my resale value's done for."

Aziraphale laughs. "I suppose that's my fault," he says, one hand coming up to comb loosely through Crowley's hair. "But weren't you listening? I couldn't care less what anyone else thinks of your worth. You are the jewel of my collection, and I have no intention of parting with you."

"'m glad." Crowley snuggles closer, drowsiness creeping up on him. "Angel. You take books to bed with you, don't you?"

"Oh, every night. Old favorites, new acquisitions that catch my interest— usually nothing very valuable, though."

"No?"

"No, I always feel the real treasures are safest down here. But, just this once—" Crowley feels Aziraphale shift beneath him, and then he's standing up, hefting Crowley easily up with him as he starts toward the stairs. "—I think I can make an exception."


End file.
